[Fiction] Of a Quotidian Nature
Of a Quotidian Nature
Author: fallen-angel-of-repression
Series: Harry Potter
Pairings: Draco/Harry. Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ginny (mild), Draco/Astoria (past), Blaise/Astoria (hinted).
Genre: Romance/General
Word Count: ~10600
Progress: Complete.
Notes: NC-17. Non-AU. Harry-centric. Semi-EWE. Infidelity of a sort. Father!Draco. Seriously-in-denial!Harry. Unusual occupation. Some fluff. (YMMV stuff: First person. Present tense. Various writing styles, especially minimalism. Borders on gen. Dash happy-like, crazy dash happy.) Given as a gift to hp_yule_balls '09. Originally posted here.
Summary: When Harry discovers an underground organization by the name of Q&A, there is nothing Harry won't do to uncover its agenda, even if that means befriending the leader of the group: no one other than Draco Malfoy himself.
---
Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.
-Homer
I.
I wake to an empty bed.
It's not unexpected, of course, nor is it unwarranted. Perhaps I should have been a tad bit more compassionate last night when she came in; instead of mumbling complaints about my long day-of how the latest essay/biography/novel/project refused to be written-of how I was not in the mood-I could have just slept with her like a good boyfriend would; as any other man would do if she approached with her hair all loose and tousled. I could have: I should have: but I did not.
I sigh, pushing the blankets off my still exhausted body to stand. I wonder where she slept last night. 12 Grimmauld Place is certainly large enough to separate her from me without any trouble, but Weasley fury had stained her cheeks magenta (clashing horribly with her freckles) when she stormed out. She hates being anywhere near me in such a state. Chances are she fled to Hannah's, or one of her fellow teammates'. Maybe even the Burrow-but with that option came the possibility that her family sided with me. More than anything, she wants people to agree with her and blast me for my inconsideration (which, may I add, is why she never went to the Granger-Weasley household; she knows better than to expect that kind of treatment from Hermione, or even Ron).
Yes, she must have gone to one of her friends.
II.
Harry,
Needed for work. Might be late, and Hermione's working tonight. Mind watching Hugo and Rose?
-Ron
III.
Not doing much anyway. Be there shortly.
-HJP
IV.
Hugo is a tremendous pain in the neck. He is often fitful and messy. He squirms so much in my arms that I fear dropping him (although, with the thick head the Weasleys are infamous for, I wonder if it will have much of an effect). He cries too loud and for too long, and the only thing that will break him from his rut is if I allow him to yank-and yank-and yank-on my hair.
But more than anything, Hugo is adorable.
How I love that brat.
V.
"You're sure your partner didn't mind?" I ask, readjusting the bottle as Hugo squirmed in my hold. "It's still rather early, and I don't mind watching the children."
"Yeah. I've been working since 5:00 AM."
"So early?"
"That's when they found the body."
"Who found it?"
"A Muggle, of course. The whole area is Muggle. Ten-maybe eleven-of us live in all of Wandsworth."
("Ironic."
"Funny, Harry."
"Sorry.) Who told the Ministry?"
"We've been on-watch it! He's getting into the horrible habit of spitting out his milk. Just use his bib-what was I saying?"
"How you were informed of the death."
"Oh. We've been paying more attention to the Muggle police communications ever since Hawks from International Cooperation was attacked."
"And there's still no clue as to who's up to it?"
"No. What makes it worse is just how little the victims and their families had in common. Well... other than Malfoy."
"Wait... what?"
"Harry, not so loud! Give me him."
"Sorry. But what about Malfoy?"
"They all want him as their Law Guardian. It's strange, especially since he hasn't been working a lot lately. I mean, remember the days when 'Mione went on and on about prosecuting any one of his clients?"
"Yeah."
"It could be a coincidence. We've checked him out already, and he has alibis for nearly every attack. He's busy all the time with taking care of that kid of his, running his estate and whatever else prats like him do."
"It's still odd for him to handle all those cases."
"Agreed. I may not trust him, but I trust 'Mione. She keeps in contact with him, when she wants an opinion on a case or something. She claims someone as clever as him would not do something so stupid... now."
"Meh."
"...Harry?"
"Hmm?"
"This may be a weird question, but is everything alright between you and Ginny?"
"Of course. We have our problems, but what couple doesn't? ...Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. Forget I brought it up."
VI.
Clock chiming eight, I shrug my spring coat on. I somehow managed to get Hugo to finally fall asleep-after much cooing and cradling and tummy rubs-a feat which Ron was certainly thankful for. Not that I minded, of course. Watching over the two children (and Teddy when his grandmother needed a break) made me happy. Bloody Bogles, how I wanted one for myself...
"I'm sure she's fine. My sis has her moments."
I roll my eyes-spelled brown as part of my usual facial glamours-checking to see if I have everything: pen, yes; satchel, yes; wand, always; glasses, on my face; book... book... I accio-ed my journal. "I know Gin. She'll want an apology within a week of the 'offense' or I'll never hear the end of it, and it's already been three days."
"But Cambridge is such a long jump. I don't want my best friend being Splinched."
"I'll do two-maybe three-jumps. Don't worry about me. Worry about that girl of yours. No normal four-year-old should spend so much time reading."
"Like her mother," Ron laughs, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
"Well, I got to go. If Gin doesn't kill me, see you tomorrow." I hardly wait for his goodnight until the uncomfortable clutch of Disapparition pinches my entire body. I am pulled-quickly, nauseatingly-away. Away from the Granger-Weasley household and from linear thought. The travel warps my vision for the split second I am in limbo: existing in either/both one and two places. I sometimes wonder if it's possible to Disapparate without Apparating: where would you exist? and would the overwhelming sucking ever end? I imagine it never would-
I drop. Dizzy and not too sure where I am. Not Bedford or Northampton. Definitely not Cambridge, but that I expected as much. Their atmospheres feel different. Maybe... Luton? The crane in my peripheral and sounds of an airport in the distance: yes, Luton makes sense.
Faced with the decision to Disapparate once more or not, I frown, feeling... distracted. It, of course, had nothing to do with Gin. I mean, I was not too thrilled to apologize, but what more can be done? I miss my girlfriend sleeping beside me.
VI.
As I sit in a small bakery, eating a honey roll (also known as stalling), something catches me off guard. Wizardkind. I sensed them the moment I set foot in Luton, and even headed toward where they are; but now it grows more and more pronounced. The source centers in one spot: too far for me to walk, yet not so far for me to sense the energy of the group. As it often does, Auror training floods back to me-the tracking exercises; the anxiety of over fifteen wizards meeting in Muggle territory. I usually ignore my instincts; the War, after all, is over: there is peace. But, the horror stories Ron tells me-of random attacks throughout the country, of anti-Muggle uprisings to this day-has made me worried.
I clink some change on the table.
VIII.
"Has everyone a hold on the rope?" the leader of the bunch (a witch with curt, pinched lips) calls. There is no objection; only a few nods and a shy "yes, Catherine, ma'am." I glance at my neighbors-a teenaged blond witch to my left, a handsome, tall man about my age in front of me, and a little old gnomish... person on my right-who nod at me in support. A part of me still cannot believe how I got myself into holding a clearly illegal Portkey with no indication as to where it will take us; nor can I believe that they really think I am Gabriel Post, a newcomer who was sent by a "friend" to their location.
But they do, and I will soon be carted away to some unnamed place. It's like being at Hogwarts again, but without the watchful eye of Professors and the ever-present loyalty of my friends.
I'm fucked.
"We have three minutes until the activation," Catherine informs the sixteen of us. A moment passes before she speaks again. "Because there is extra weight tonight"-she looks directly at me (how subtle)-"the squeezing sensation might feel a bit stronger than usual, but if you have the urge to complain, know that I will personally curse your mouth shut for a month. We must not make the new member uncomfortable. Oh, ten seconds. Well, I do hope that you have a good time, Mr Post."
I almost consider letting go, but the encouraging look on my neighbor's boyish face keeps my hand clasped on the rope as it sucks on my navel and takes us away.
IX.
We land in what I take to be a waiting room. Exquisite cushioned chairs line the room with enough side and coffee tables to furnish an entire House's dorm back in Hogwarts. Bowls of treats all around. Homely, patterned wallpaper of flowers that sway as people walk about. And the people... So many races and heights; men, women, and those who clearly took time to blur the line between the two. Young and old alike, and some rival the late Tonks in their peculiarity-Tonks...
Strings of conversation clog my sensations: just standing here, I hear about the price increase of Baba Yaga saliva; whom is sleeping with whom in the Official Gobstones Club; and what color Ms Roger on Gull Lane Transfigured her rose bushes into.
I am at odds. People try to speak with me, invite me into their group of companions, but I politely refuse. I consider leaving, but I have a purpose: so many wizards and witches... illegal Portkeys with the probability of more illegal activity... and a sense of community and obligation: everyone knows each other here, or at least they are comfortable enough to be so... together.
It reminds me almost of the lofty time just before a Dumbledore's Army meeting, which does not help to lessen my anxiety.
X.
"Everyone, it's time," Catherine calls, bored, from the head of the room. People herd toward her-and a wide door. "As you are lead to the assembly room,"-I follow the crowd-"note that you will be searched, and anything we deem dangerous will be confiscated. Please alert the guard if this is your first time here, or if you are under a Disillusionment."-Oh dear...-"Thank you, welcome to Q&A,"-Finally, a name for this organization-"and hope you enjoy tonight's meeting."
It takes ten minutes for me to reach the front tables. There are various trinkets lined up-and I know better than to lie.
It takes thirty seconds for a greeter to say hello and ask me about myself, and then another twenty seconds for me to say that I am both new and under a Disillusionment.
It takes two minutes for the greeter to ask me politely if I could please move to a private room and reveal my true identity, then for me to refuse, then for him to lead me into a side room, then for him to call over his "superior."
Catherine then explains that my identity is confidential; that no one aside from her will ever know. I refuse again.
It then takes Catherine ten minutes to call over her superior. I am committed to discovering what in Godric's name was going on, so I wait, and wait.
Only to have Catherine appear with a man at her side; a man who I have seen before...
Draco fucking Malfoy.
XI.
"Mr Post, I understand your hesitation to reveal your identity," Malfoy offered smoothly, "but it is vital to this organization to make sure you are not a reporter, spy, or some sort of saboteur sent to ruin Q&A."
I nod patiently, remembering the tactics for discretion I used so many years ago... Even tone, vague wording, politeness... but how can I do that when here I have Malfoy. The Draco Malfoy, running a covert operation with illegal Portkeys. So even if this is some grand convention for knitting fanatics, I got him on that, at least. Wait... back on track, Harry. "And as I've been saying for the last ten minutes, I am a very influential wizard, Malfoy. I cannot allow anyone to know I came here."
Malfoy tilts his head in a "sympathetic" expression-one I may have understood as sincere if not for his calculative eyes. Their gray stare is so cold, so obviously manipulative... yet why do I have the urge to yield? "As am I. As are a lot of people here. Please understand that you are no more special than any of them; and we are just trying to protect the community."
"I must refuse."
"Post, I implore you to reveal yourself."
"No."
A sharp movement and his wand-his precious hawthorn 10-inch-points to the middle of my chest. I cannot react before his charm washes over me-slipping through the fabric of my clothes to my skin, kind of like an egg was thrown my way, its yolk splattering. I try to fight it, but it works rapidly-a skilled trick, a rare trick... one that only a handful of wizards and witches can only dream of performing. It's already climbing up my neck by the time I finally whip out my wand, crying Expelliarmus.
His hawthorn clinks against the floor across the suddenly claustrophobic room. My illusion is still in place, but the way his eyes fix to the wood in my hand... he knows.
Damn.
"I think you should be leaving, Mr Post."
"You do not expect me in good conscience leave when I have no clue what's going on here."
"Your brand of... curiosity is not needed here." Malfoy locks eyes with me as his wand whizzes back to his hand. He speaks, with an alarming precision, "I promise you that this is not an organization of the likes of... of Death Eaters. I would never do anything that might endanger the wellbeing of my mother and my son. I swear to you."
"But..."
"Potter. Please leave."
XII.
I never get to Hannah's.
XIII.
Ginny appears two days later for some of her things. I think she expects an apology, but I am too busy searching through tomes to discover whatever "Q&A" may mean. We fight some more before she leaves, and I am at peace as I methodically peer into the history of printed text in front of me.
XIV.
I ask Hermione if she knows what Q&A is. She takes a moment before replying that perhaps she's heard of it. Perhaps-but not enough to say much of it.
XV.
It is by sheer chance that I come across him.
For years, I used Battersea Park as my retreat from the oftentimes suffocating wizarding world. Very, very few wizards know how lovely the park is and how comforting it is to escape the... heaviness of magic.
But, I consider, maybe it is the scenery that retarded my writing ability, and a change in scenery may do me good. Merlin knows I've tried in the past, but maybe this time it'll stick. Maybe...
Book in hand, I meander. I walk blindly through the park-from the Old English Garden to the Peace Pagoda, to the Mermaid past the Millennium Arena. Then I left Battersea. Walk the streets-lanes-roads: absently, yet deliberately-toward something. Then I feel it: a blush of magic pulsing with a strength that signals several high-level wizards collected in one spot; I taste their power on my tongue, and little facets of the sensation are oddly familiar.
Curiosity (and the brief hope that a congregation this size will lead me to Q&A as it did the last time) wins, of course.
As I curve around the loop of Etheburga Street, the warmth of a Muggle-repelling charm trickles through me. Three magenta robes huddle importantly around a ZONE ENDS sign, a gloom of seriousness settled over them. It unnerves me to see their heads pressed together as they whisper whatever their intuition tells them. Not too far off, a civilian sits on the short curb, face hidden within the clutches of his fists. An Auror-redheaded-Ron's the only one in his department-waffles as he pats the man's shoulder.
Dispelling my omnipresent glamours, I walk up to my friend. The other Aurors jump as I approach, but upon seeing who I am, their agitation gives way to awe. Fans, no doubt.
And it's a wonder why I left the program.
"-have to understand. Mr Amory, any information will help. Do you have any idea why anyone would attack Franklin, or even why he would want to come to your apartment so late in the night?"Something seems... off with Ron's voice. Like he thinks something he shouldn't. The man-Amory-shakes his head. "Are you sure there is nothing?"
"Auror Weasley-"
"Granger-Weasley."
Amory chortles, looking up at Ron with stubborn red-ringed eyes. "Forgive me. Auror Granger-Weasley, there is nothing I can tell you that you do not know or suspect of Franklin... or me, for that matter. Please, just leave me alone to grieve the loss of my dear friend."
Although reluctant, Ron mumbles something about leaving contact information with one of his co-workers and comes to my side.
He is in the middle of rambling about having a bit to eat soon when a blur of platinum hair flashes in my peripheral vision, moving toward Amory. That obnoxiously pale hair clues me in to his identity right away-Malfoy again... and I barely catch myself from storming up to the blond. Saying who-knows-what, he lays a hand on the mourning man's shoulder in much the same way Ron had, but with far more success. The scene entrances me: even from my distance, I note the paradoxical softness of his (still) jagged face juxtaposed with the stern frown marring his otherwise calm countenance.
Our eyes meet as Amory finally stands, and I actually take a step in his direction. I just want to know what is going on-what is it that so upset Amory-how Malfoy can placate the man with a few choice words-whether Malfoy can do it with anyone-with me (why would I need someone to comfort me? What a strange slip of the proverbial tongue).
"Harry, ready to go?"
No. "Yeah. Know a good bar around here?"
XVI.
Draco Malfoy
Malfoy
Mister D. A. Malfoy,
You crude prat of a ferret,
Malfoy,
We need to talk.
-HJP
XVII.
No.
XVIII.
HJP,
There is nothing I can say to you.
-DAM
XIX.
Potter,
Stop owling me. It's getting old rather quickly, especially since I send back half of your messages unopened.
XX.
I love Ginny; she is my beloved girlfriend; I have not seen her outside the Burrow setting for a month. I love her, truly.
XXI.
Dear Harry J. Potter,
There is no other way of saying this that is less uncouth, so excuse my lack of elegance when I say please leave my mother out of this. Simply because you wrote your first book about her, dedicated an award to her, and spend tea time at the Tonks' with her once a month does not give you the right to use her as a means to contact me.
Not so sincerely,
Draco A. Malfoy
XXII.
After a few words from my mother shortly after sending my last letter, I have decided to meet with you, if only to put an end to this nonsense. I shall alter the wards to allow you into the Manor this evening at 8:00. After exactly seven minutes, I will close the wards. If you do not show up but continue to send me owls, I swear on Gunhilda's hump that I shall report you to the Ministry for harassment.
XXIII.
"You came."
I shrug off my coat and hand it to the elf who greeted me. "Do you greet all your guests with such distaste?"
The parlor Malfoy selected for our meeting is fanciful and overdecorated with priceless antique furniture and moving artwork. Binn's voice rattles in my mind as I deftly identify at least four different wizarding eras represented in the space; I can only imagine what other treasures the Malfoy Manor has stored within its winding halls. Understandably, I have the urge to lower my voice as I tell Teddy and Rose to do in a museum.
"Honestly," Malfoy sighs from his chair, gesturing for me to sit across from him, "My guests largely consist of Scorpius' playmates, and I usually pick them up and drop them off. Sometimes I have some of the Slytherins I am still in contact with over, but I prefer to get out of the house."
On an end table just within reach, a tea pot, cups, plates, and various treats are conjured through what I guess is elfin magic. "And what of your son's mother?"
"Astoria is here so often I sometimes forget she no longer lives at the Manor," Malfoy comments as he pours tea for me and him. "But in general, I do not entertain much. I hardly have the time my mother does to throw lavish balls and dinner parties."
I sit, already wary of Malfoy's intentions. He speaks as though we are friends. We are not. He acts as though he is comfortable with me being here. He should not. "But you have enough time to run Q&A?"
With my snipe comes a minute fracture to Malfoy's pleasant facade. I almost laugh. His peeved pinch of his lips brings a queer sense of satisfaction to my heart: just like at Hogwarts... well, just as how I like to remember my time in Hogwarts. We were two charming schoolboys who prodded each other just for the fun of it: the rivalry was not dark, or deathly, or tainted by Voldemort's influence; no, there was only the frustration of two stubborn boys who enjoyed picking on each other more than the effort of ever kindling a friendship.
To the good old days!
"Potter." His thumb rings the rim of his cup. "As I told you already, I am unable to sate your curiosity in regards to my organization-yes, it is mine. I did not start it, but I run it now."
I drown my annoyed cry into the tea. Mmm. A rare blend: Korrigan berry with a hint of sun dried Sudice tree leaves. "So why did you bother inviting me over if you knew you couldn't give me what I want? What's keeping me from leaving right now?"
Malfoy's thumb stills. "I want to prove to you that I am now a decent man with a wonderful life."
"And what would that do?"
He cannot suppress a smirk. "It is all part of my wicked plan to make you see that I am innocent." Oh, so Malfoy jokes!
But underneath his jesting, there is the serious connotation of a need for acceptance-my acceptance. I did save him and his mother from Azkaban, as well as helping his father receive a reduced sentence, so many years ago. Why, I started writing to combat the negativity toward the family! Back when I was but a teenaged mess of hormones and survivor's guilt, I gave the Malfoys a second chance... Should I be so biased against this Malfoy who has proved himself time and time again as a valuable member of wizarding society?
"I... guess I can stay a bit longer. I hope you know that I will not stop my investigation as to what in the world you're doing."
"Of course. Now, try the tart. It is absolutely delicious."
XXIX.
Upon his appearance, the entire room broke out in a yell of triumph. It was their victory more than his, but Harry would have it no other way. For too long, he experienced all-losses, sadness, surprises, and even a few victories-alone. Alone-utterly, hauntingly alone. Now, in a realm separate from his life with the Dursley's, he had enough capital to buy just about anything he wanted and enough fame to support any venture he so wished; but Harry needed to share. He needed others to absorb the world with him; wanted someone else to understand him: to want to feel something with him. He had Ron already, and the other boys in his dorm, but he wanted more. More sharing, more empathy, more union-more-more-more-moremoremoremore. But what would that entail, he asked himself as his (what he hazarded to call) friends slapped his back and cheered "Harry! Harry!" When would it be enough? When would he finally feel... fulfilled? Loved? Did he even deserve to
"Fuck."
Throwing my quill (Transfigured into a pen) aside, I glare at the new entry, just one of a multitude of never finished projects. They each mock me with their crossed out sections and poorly drawn doodles lining the scrawled text. They must know I will never find it in myself to get rid of them: they are free to torment me with every nanosecond of their cursed existence. And like a masochist, I willingly contribute a new paragraph, line, or even a thick wad of pages to their collection in hopes of something coming out right. It never does. Even in describing the most glorious moments of my own life, questions-bothersome, endless questions and insecurities-flood the page, lacing every worded image. I hadn't had this much trouble with a piece for years-not since I began writing.
But what is a professional to do when Writer's Block sucks up any sense of organization and direction?
Ginny will kill me once she finds out how far behind I am with my writing. The public expects at least one published article (scholarly or otherwise) every few months, and it has been exactly five months, six days, four hours and twenty-six minutes since Erean's Wizarding Academics printed my piece, "Got Your Conk: Peeves the Poltergeist and his Dastardly Influence on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." How much longer will it be until the next Potter paper?
Another question.
And on top of this slump, there is issue with Malfoy. I've not forgotten about him, but I've also not learned anything more about him and Q&A. No one has heard of this organization, thinking I am trying to make a fool out of them with such an odd line of questioning. ("Malfoy? I haven't heard anything from him since the Trials," or, "Didn't he divorce that Greengrass girl a few years ago? Right after his demon spawn was born?" or, "Q&A? It sounds like a drink.")
He sounded so sincere when he spoke to me... I guess that is why I have not been pressing harder. Maybe I should just let him out of my mind. Maybe.
But I said I would have dinner with him again this evening. And I am actually... looking forward to it.
XXX.
Ginny and I are finally alone at long last. Molly must have left to give us this opportunity. I ask her what she has been up to; Holyhead Harpies training and such. She asks what I've been up to; writing-I do not tell her about Malfoy-no one knows about Malfoy.
"Are you moving back in?"
"Well, there's a string of matches in Eastern Europe coming up. Training ends late, and Valmai's is so close to the pitch that it's more convenient for me to stay there."
"Okay." We discuss the possibility of the Harpies winning various matches, and I kiss her on the cheek as she goes off to her friend's.
XXXI.
Lunch today with Malfoy went well, as it always does. I forgot to nag him about Q&A. Must do that later.
XXXII.
Stepping out of my room in nothing more than my pajama pants and a wispy sleeping gown, I am greeted with a low snarl. "Potter, there something you be needing from Kreacher this mornin'?"
"Have you prepared breakfast?"
"Aye."
"Then there is nothing."
Not bothering to walk, I Apparate to the kitchen and immediately began to fix a plate. The food looks decent today: sausage, scrambled eggs, toast and jam, tea-the simple yet delicious smell indicates a Muggle brand-and oddly enough, a small cube of chocolate. There is only enough servings for Kreacher and me.
As always, a pop from the next room accompanies my second bite. My lone elf coughs, "The missus not here today," (a statement, not a question) as he gathers the food I left.
"That is none of your business."
"Some fortnights without her," he says passively, or at least, it would have been passive if not for the quick glance he throws me. It is that glance which pauses the reprimand already forming on my tongue. The old elf had finally accepted me after years of whispered snides and outright rebellion, but he often overstepped his boundaries... "Seen more of Master Malfoy than the missus lately..."
"Just eat, elf." I point my fork toward the seat across from me to emphasize my command. "Hermione will have my hide if she suspects you're malnourished, even if it is by your own doing."
"Aye, Potter."
XXXIII.
"Hey."
I raise my eyes from my writing. "Yes?"
"I-I'm... I..."
"Speak up, Malfoy. With that amount of stuttering, you might prove that you are a ferret after all."
He pinches his lips and looks the other way. "Never mind. It wasn't that important."
XXXIV.
It is three months since I first became (tentative) friends with Malfoy when I finally meet Scorpius.
At first glance, Scorpius looks like how I imagine his father in his youth. Pale skin, pale hair, gray eyes (although speckles of blue touch the boy's), skinny and with features which will surely sharpen later on in life. His diction rivals that of children three times his age, and he walks with prefect posture.
At second glance, he is much more jolly than I can ever imagine Malfoy being. He hugs anyone willing to hug him, and he smiles more than he whines (which is much more than I can say about Rose, that's for sure), and he hangs onto my every word.
At third glance, Scorpius' exuberant personality overwhelm his various faults.
At fourth glance, I notice Malfoy: he stands close to the boy, a protective hand tussling the child's hair; his face softens critically the second he looks upon his son; he answers Scorpius glances with an encouraging smile. It is a bit of a shock: to see Malfoy so forthright with his feelings; to see him as more than Malfoy... Malfoy the leader of Q&A... Malfoy the jerk from school... but as Draco the father. Draco, the man who can be compassionate without being manipulative.
It scares me how-during the time that Scorpius, Malfoy and I had a picnic in Battersea-I felt more happy than I have in years.
XXXV.
Time moves so quickly; how I get lost in the tendrils of his serendipity.
XXXVI.
Once, just once, I danced with Malfoy.
I know how it sounds. We went out with Astoria and Blaise, got a bit tipsy, and wanted to have some fun. Astoria had Blaise to dance with, and Malfoy and I did not feel like waiting until Blaise gave her up. So we danced together. Even in my Firewhiskey stupor, having a man so close... made me uncomfortable. But Malfoy stood a respectful distance away from me, and even allowed me to have the lead as we twirled (more like tumbled) around. He laughed so wholeheartedly.
A blush-a drunken flush?-stained his cheeks, and I stepped on his toes thrice.
And... And maybe we were dancing really close. And our mouths touched-for a minute or three-in a completely platonic way.
It was an accident.
XXXVII.
Ron, pushing a hand through his hair as Hermione rubbed his back, reports that there was yet another random attack. This victim's still alive, at least. Malfoy's with her now.
XXXVIII.
"This is so weird."
"Yes?"
"I still do not understand Muggles. Their art does not move as it should."
"It's a different experience. And stop with the M-word, Drake."
"I'll stop once you call me by my proper name."
"Can you stop being annoying and just appreciate the paintings?"
"Oh, I do appreciate them. They are exquisite."
"Wait. Are you just-"
"Yes, Gabriel, I am just being a bag of Nuzzlesprouts."
"I hate you."
"I hate you too."
XXXIX.
Sitting across from Malfoy at a restaurant in wizarding London, I cannot help but feel somewhat diminished. The man looks absolutely striking in his vest-shirt-pant combo, and my just barely business-casual outfit-albeit nice-is nothing much in any comparison. Now, I am not self-conscious. No, no, no-I am far from it. I love how I fit in clothes; I love how I look in clothes; I love how I look without clothes; but that does not mean that I cannot look at Malfoy with a sort of curious fascination that perpetually haunts my mind. I refuse to believe that he just happened upon that outfit; there is something too perfect about it: in this ensemble, he can just as easily make a dramatic entrance as he can wisp his way in and out of a sticky situation; he can be the flamboyant personality or the quiet mystery. Then again, Malfoy is equally likely to be one thing one moment, and the opposite the moment after if the situation called for it.
For a reason unbeknownst to me, this thought is a bit unnerving.
"Do you want something?" Malfoy asks politely as he catches my eyes on him for the second time.
"I still do not know anything about Q&A," I cough lamely. "I've searched and searched and searched, but no one has heard of it. No one. Hermione is the only one who recognized it, but she couldn't place where she's heard it. I don't want to give up, but there doesn't seem to be a point!"
"That's it?" Malfoy laughed, raising a napkin to his lips.
I throw him an indignant glare. "I'll have you know that you just witnessed a miracle."
"Oh, of course! The Boy Who Survived Far Too Many Times giving up? Blasphemy."
"So you understand my predicament?
"Whatever. Just pass the salt."
XL.
"'-and nothing for little miss Chrissy Clombers,' said the wizard. 'The only thing I hate more than a liar is an ignorant liar.'"
The door swings open without a sound. Charms must line the threshold, to prevent obnoxious creaks from disturbing Malfoy when he's in his study. I peer in: the endless amounts of (mostly) leather-bond books; the smell of old parchment and time-weathered tomes; the rug with woodland beasts frolicking amongst willows-all facets of the study that I have spent hours on end exploring and experiencing and desiring to know just a little more.
"'But, dear wise hermit!" she cried with tears blurring her vision. 'How was I supposed to know about the spell? I've been alone in the tower for so long; I had no way of knowing!'"
Son and father sat together on a love seat, but not next to one another. The two have such a quirky dynamic that I am simply awestruck by. Scorpius sits cross legged between his father's stretched out limbs, his tiny fingers holding the book up for Malfoy to read. Malfoy-no, Draco's chin settled quite nicely within Scorpius' hair. (I wonder how Scorpius stays so still: if I had Malfoy breathing on my head, I doubt you would find me much composed.) His reading glasses make an attempt to slide off his nose, but Draco seamlessly pushed it back up as he turned the page.
"'There lies the conflict.'"
I never get to see this side of him: Draco, the tender father, rather than Malfoy, the snarky friend. Voyeuristic urges tell me to stay at the threshold and observe the homely sight. I do not belong, but I want to. I want to be part of that. I want...
"'What can I do?'
"'Look inside yourself, and you will see the world."'
+-part two-+